


A Burial in Blood and Breath

by Scudd3r



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Angst and Feels, Character Study, Established Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, Post-Fall (Hannibal), Reminiscing, homoromantic relationship, sort of a slow burn but not really
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-15
Updated: 2020-09-30
Packaged: 2021-02-27 04:01:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 13,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22260745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scudd3r/pseuds/Scudd3r
Relationships: Alana Bloom/Margot Verger, Molly Graham/Will Graham, Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 32
Kudos: 63





	1. Chapter 1

_The white splattering surge lay under them as they descended through transient shapes and colours, senseless of everything apart from the streak that was their joint memory and existence. Two bodies transformed into one singular shape that flew from the skies, wingless. It was a shape that both statically floated - as wingless as it was - above the dark cloth of the Universe and yet with an immense rapidity, fell into the amenable waters. And touching the edge of the Universe, it began painting the dark, vast canvas with red._

Will stirred into consciousness and coughed his lungs empty. There was rough gravel beneath him and deep sigh of waves reverberating more and more vividly into him, whispering y _ou are alive_ and reminding him of the very thing that had made him feel that way. It was imprinted into every ounce of his existence. With adrenaline tingling in his veins, blood had splattered from him and at him, and with no restrictions of the laws of God or men, he had embraced the finality of his life.

Now aliveness was something unreachable and motionless, a curse he had tried to rid, but could not. And there beside him lay another indelible curse. Will turned his head to see the man’s body mirroring his own, his clothes torn and breath hoarse, coughing whatever came out of him and then reciprocating his look. Will gritted his teeth and crawled closer to take a hold of him, fingers digging deep into his shoulder, as if ensuring himself he was not deluded. For a second he considered placing his hands around his neck, tightening his grip and bringing it all to an end. He contemplated whether he ought fight his nature and deny him once more, but instead, kept gazing into the man’s grave but pending eyes, fully aware that he could not. Will knew what he had become. It was finished.

’Hannibal’, he groaned and the man groaned right back. Will pulled him up and he leaned against him, with the slightest shadow of pain across his face. They held each other, blood and salt smeared shirts colliding, breaths getting heavier with every passing second. Will’s eyes began to blur, Hannibal’s did not. He grabbed Will by his neck and pressed hard.

’You see it now, don’t you Will?’ Hannibal said and took a deep breath, then pulled them both up with unforeseen determination, and with eyes that flared, they began their ascent.


	2. Chapter 2

As a child, Will often dreamed of a colder place. Only when Louisiana's heats had become unbearable, he had cried to dad about it, telling him he didn't want to live there anymore, and off went his hair. The dream he kept seeing: a different place, was relative to his hope for a different life. Environment and circumstance had commingled in his mind - he could not distinguish hot weather from childhood.

Growing up had been as stagnant as it had been a constantly changing scenery, a cycle of dad buzzing his hair off in the summer heat, helping him repair rusty boat motors and decks, going to a new school, dad chasing a job from one boatyard to another therefore a change of school yet again, and the cycle repeated, until he had to start cutting his own hair. The first time doing it, he had been careless and left it uneven, and in all the schools he went to, other kids pointed their fingers and laughed behind his back - but whether it was his hair to blame or not, he did not _belong._

Then at one point in his adulthood, after he had moved to Washington, Will decided not to cut it short anymore. He had disposed of Louisiana's hot humidity and his youth for good when curls of silk began to grow from behind his ears, from the back of his neck, soon long enough to make him unrecognizable. And yet he still dreamed of a different place, a different life.

. . .

His hair floated dark in the reddening water of a bathtub, with a man’s expressive hands pressing, twisting his curls in delicate movements. His touch was soothing in its silence, and warm; the water was not. He considered sleep and how quickly it would take him now, even in pain. Will drifted back into his childhood and the endless nights of sweating, felt how his damp hair got glued to his skin, encircling his face like overgrown roots squirming from the dirt, then dragging him under.


	3. Chapter 3

Hannibal had always relished a sincere curiosity for the human condition, from the physique to the psyche that lay hidden. He thought of this as an opportunity to become transparent and to create a space of humanity around him - fully confident that it would be all-encompassing - and once reaching its objective, it would blithely succeed in deceiving whoever entered it. 

Naively, he had not thought much of Will Graham when they had first encountered. That was not say he saw no potential in him, or that he was solely _meat_ to him, on the contrary; he found himself oddly pleased when Will had opposed his therapy. Consequently, they had not found common ground in Jack's office, where the man had appeared as agitated as if he was a wild bird captured in a cage. He saw that Will was a result of his own prudently structured demeanor, in which he had hidden all his potential while hoping no one would take notice, except that Hannibal did, of course. He rested his eyes on him, contemplating, whether to rattle his cage or set him free. 

Months later, when he had begun to _see_ him, Will spoke of curiosity and of his own underlying desire for murder. Hannibal listened in awe and answered: 'Curiosity plays an essential part in humanity. It's where all our knowledge derives from, thereby drawing a line between us and other species.'

Will raised his brow in disdain. 

'It also draws a line between psychopaths and the rest of society', Will said bluntly, ’the curiosity to kill.’

'Tell me, how would you differentiate between what's good and bad for you, if not by curiosity?' Hannibal asked in earnest, and though Will didn't answer, his eyes gave enough of a response. He stood up from the opposite armchair and paced around the room, as if trying to find a solution to a problem. 

'There's more to me than just curiosity', he said, and it was true, but what he disregarded was that it was the only thing that had recently driven him to act.

'If acting upon it is what troubles you, it's not a necessity. The feeling itself can often be more pleasurable than putting it into practice.'

Will's expression altered from sullen to scornful. 'For you it isn't', he said, and then, after rubbing his face in frustration, 'even so, curiosity might be the only human thing about you', and with that he had brought their session to an end.

He did not mind Will trespassing. For quite some time he had awaited him to step through his transparency, into his darkness.


	4. Chapter 4

Every breath taken after their fall had enforced codependency - enforced the desire to coexist - even if Will struggled to accept it.

He thought of how Will’s disappointed face had reflected his own, how his hesitation to strangle him itched in his hands too. Then he had come to the realization that Will, in his disappointment and hesitation, in his anger and ardor and reconciliation, _was_ him. No thought or act would ever again be conceived without the other. Hannibal explained this to Will, and grinding his teeth, the man sank deeper into the bathtub. 

His fingers glided from the slicks of hair when Will awoke from his contemplation and shifted in the water. His cheek was bruised and swollen under the bandage, and every few minutes he sighed, aloud and rough, as if it would ease the pain.

His eyes were still, reflecting no inner liveliness, neither emotion nor intellect. Hannibal proceeded to draw out a reaction by slowly sliding his hand along the curve of his bent neck. There came none but his own: his mouth sinking into the wet lips, thorough and curious.

Will's indifference amused him.

He lingered above his mouth and smiled down at him before withdrawing. Will focused his eyes on him, at last, and let his gaze discreetly wander about across his face. Seeing that Hannibal took delight in this, he managed to clamber out of the tub, uncaring of his disfigured bareness and the dramatic splurge of water it caused.

He gave him a long definitive stare. With pupils expanding, his eyes saw through his skull, through substance and subatomic particles, until his head turned into nothingness, and the only thing left was Will and his eyes that stared and said: _I know who I am._

He took delight in that as well.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic is basically just endless vent about Will’s confusion ..though isn’t that the whole show lmao

The trembling in his hands would not cease. He pressed Hannibal’s abdomen until the man took a hold of his wrist, saying ’Will’ and ’there’s not much time’ and other things too that Will was too fuzzy to grasp.

‘Will’, he repeated in a demanding tone and with a deep growl asked him to fetch his medical equipment. Will nodded his pale face in obedience, and feeling like a frightful dog waiting for either reward or punishment, provided him everything he needed.

Will’s face was both numb and constantly on fire, and the chest wound he kept pressing with one of Hannibal’s fine shirts throbbed intimately against the expensive fabric. He managed to laugh at that. Everything passed by with incomprehensible speed and incoherence.   
Hannibal was seated in the bathroom, cutting his shirt from where he had made it into a bandage of sorts, his hands wavering ever so slightly. Will crumpled to the corner of the room. He sat there watching him in silence - in odd sense of death, more like, however fully assured in the notion that it would not come. It never did when one only passively wished for it, and even if his passive attempt on suicide had come close, he knew it wasn’t an option anymore. If anything, it made things even more complicated. Should he try it again, it needed more than pure carelessness to succeed, which was all he got.

Hannibal was all calmness as he attended to himself, even though the wounds they had suffered were not a mere inconvenience to him this time. He saw in Hannibal’s face the urgency: every second wasted would cost his and Will’s life. He was decided not to let the opportunity of survival slip away, he was fierce with determination, angry even.

Looking at him, Will felt a lump in his throat. Tears begun to fall, the excruciating pain elsewhere numbing the sensory experience of it. The man injected himself with prophylaxis, then his eyes drifted to Will, and with _that_ _look_ came another tear, and yet another, until he could’ve might as well been drained of tears as well as of blood. He could not trace the emotion and it seemed to have no end, not until his inexplicable tears departed along with his consciousness. 

The darkness behind his eyelids was vast, though not empty. There came echoes of faint, both familiar and unknown voices. Images of flashing faces perpetuated in between the echoing and the dark; he couldn’t see them nor they see him, but that’s why it comforted him: he preferred to be left behind as a memory of a feeling or a voice rather than a vivid image. In fact he wanted to disappear completely. Sadly, that wasn’t an option. If only there was no ontological dimension of him, not even in the minds that truly wanted to remember him: Molly and Walter, Jack as well, he supposed, Alana too. His dogs he didn’t mind. It comforted him actually, to exist in a place as unreachable and innocent as their daydreaming, like he was their well-kept secret. 

He had decided though, that he would never be seen again. There would be an immaterial burial in his honor to a deceased federal agent’s grave, or back in Wolftrap maybe, if not somewhere in Louisiana’s lakesides or marshes. He would be buried and he would cease to exist to all but _him._

Then he had awoken in a bathtub. The pain was milder even if it still was there and he had been fixed up with bandages and all. The face that stared down at him suddenly reminded him of the emotion that had taken hold of him earlier. Still, he couldn’t put a name to it, and maybe never could, but that didn’t seem to affect him anymore. He only knew the logics of his situation which itself was relieving and empowering. He wasn’t the bystander to his own or to Hannibal’s actions. He too was now a murderer by its most flagrant definition and it both revolted and excited him.

Stopping Hannibal was not going to happen by murder, that much was clear to him. Instead, Will would gain control of their newfound bond, and in return, worship him as the inspiration he was. He would stay alive and stay with him till death if necessary, in terror as in rapture.   
  
And it was okay, he thought - hadn't he already been buried?


	6. Chapter 6

Driving through Virginia was like a memory gone to waste, still, one that he cherished. Walter in the backseat with Buster, Molly’s cool hand on the back of his neck, summers spent playing a blissful role that revealed nothing abnormal on the face of it.

The more they put miles behind, the easier it was to forget.

’Not sure whether to thank you or not’, Will said abruptly, when they had been driving for about half an hour, ’for saving my life.’ He was sure his face was devoid of gratitude. Hannibal answered with a temperate smile. ’I’ve lost count with the, uh-’, he meant to make a remark on the amount of times he had saved him, but kept glancing behind his shoulder, waiting for patrol cars and sirens to surprise them any minute now.

’It was the fourth I think’, Hannibal answered all the same. His face was an odd shade of grey in the evening light and there was stiffness to his demeanor. Worn out or not, he still managed to keep his tranquility. ’You must have counted in the times I tried to do the opposite’, he said and clearly thought of it very amusing, which it wasn’t. However, it still had some truth to it.

’Well, your intentions aren’t always the easiest to grasp', Will said.

’Have I really been that incoherent?’

Will huffed out a painful laughter.

’The entirety of our relationship is deep-rooted in ambivalence. Thought that was as clear as day.’

’On your part’, he said assertively. ‘I’ve never been confused about you.’ There was resentment in his words. Will gave a frustrated nod, fighting the urge to dispute them. 

’I’m not gonna apologize’, he said after a minute. His hand twitched with the memory. His mouth gushed with blood then, his heart fluttered fervently. He exhaled it away. ’I can thank you for saving my life, and appreciate the effort you took in it, but that’s it. Had I known better-’, the sentence felt thick in his mouth, ‘I would’ve found another way.’ 

‘Yet here we are.’ Their glances met for the briefest of moment. ’I don't seek your apology, Will, or your gratitude. I’m merely satisfied that your attempt wasn’t successful.’

’I’m sure you are’, Will agreed and leered back at Hannibal, at his lips too, that had intruded and tasted his mouth. He probably still savored the blood and dirt of him. ’I’ll just have to do my best not to nourish it any further.’ 

Hannibal’s satisfaction was stimulated nonetheless and the smugness of it radiated through. He said nothing, just kept his eyes sharp on the road and smiled. 

There was a house in Portsmouth Island, his and Molly's place, he explained to Hannibal. It was a harsh place to live in and unreachable, very hard to find your way there sometimes if you didn't know the waters. Will wasn't an inexperienced sailor, however. They had sailed there one summer, Molly and him, hiked the grounds and spent a night in the house that belonged to an old man at the time. Close to ninety and no children, he was an ornithologist and a survivalist, appreciating the few visitors passing by every once in a year. They had took liking to him, and by their second visit, he had offered to sell the house. He would be gone soon, he’d say, he would be no more, and it wouldn't make any difference to the place. Still, it's good to be alive round there, he had claimed, hence they made a deal and shook hands. It was a rough, empty place.

'The man's dead now’, Will said to Hannibal.  
  
'Good for you then', he answered.

Close to midnight, they reached North Carolina. Will had taken the driver’s seat when they had stopped near the state border, and the older man had dozed off as soon as they crossed it. At some point along the highway, he noticed a patrolling car steadily following them from a distance. Hannibal was fast asleep, Will’s hands tightened on the steering wheel, twitching again with the memory of a blood filled mouth, and a knife ripping through flesh. Adrenaline hummed inside him. They were not detected.

He drove along the coastal route, from Point Harbor to Hatteras, then past a camping area and a long line of old and seemingly abandoned summer houses, until there came in sight a boatyard and a dock. Chain-link-fence surrounded the area around a wind and rain-whitened shed, and next to it there was a sailboat covered in tarp, resting on a trailer. 

‘There’s no need for the key’, Will said after a long pause of silently staring at the locked gate and the buried boat behind it. Indeed he owned the key as he owned the boatyard, but since this boat bit had been more of an improvisation from his part, the key was presently hanging from his and Molly’s corridor.

Will got out of the car and fetched fencing pliers from the trunk. He waved it at Hannibal - probably looking like he was about to kill him with it - then went over to the fence and cut the locked chain that held the gate closed. He pulled it open with his good arm and got back to the car, crashing to the seat.

'I have to take a look at the boat, should take a day or two before we can set sail', he said. 

‘This will do for few days’, Hannibal said. He seemed satisfied enough as he considered the surroundings, ‘a week at most.’ 

The same strange hesitance that had been after the fall, was creeping back. Hannibal took notice and caught Will’s wrist as he was starting the engine.

‘You can go back, if you truly want to.’ His face didn’t correlate with his words, and the suggestion was as tempting as it was useless. 

‘You know I can’t’, Will simply said, calm and modest and defeated. He didn’t look at him when he said: ‘I don’t want to.’ It was more of a question than a statement, felt little pathetic too. It had also very little to do with what he truly wanted. His thoughts were still a clutter. Hannibal let go of his wrist as Will rested his head against car seat and pulled at his hair. ‘It's extremely annoying when you do that’, he said.

Hannibal only turned his head in self-absorbed contemplation.

‘The thing you do when you assumably know exactly what I want or need but pretend otherwise. Don’t do that. It’s not gonna help your cause, whatever it is.’

‘It’s not only me who pretends’, Hannibal said through gritted teeth as he held his abdomen. ‘I’ll speak honestly if you have the nerve to do the same.’

'Go on then.'

'You harbor doubts about yourself, about me, and declare it a victory, but dismiss and deny the urges that smother them.’

'No, I do admit there are impulses - a shadow of thoughts following me. I just don't necessarily approve of them.'   
  
Hannibal was slouched, pressing his hand harder on his wound. It was fine to see him like this. Will dared to look at him now, he dared to say: ’You kissed me.’ _  
_

He observed him thoroughly.

'Does it still linger on your mouth - like a knife that lingers on the artery’, Hannibal whispered keenly, ’is it something you disapprove, but can't dispose of?' 

The memory came once again, the flood of adrenaline seething through Will’s veins was poetry waiting to be voiced, something that only Hannibal could appreciate and understand. He drew near, his features were covered in the night as if he was extension of the dark, the sea called to him with his voice, its foaming waves whispering the words in unison as he said: 'Is it not more than a shadow that you hope to dismiss and deny?'


	7. Chapter 7

The sterile emptiness of his prison cell awaited him, and so did Alana Bloom, who was standing there behind the glass and smiling considerately. Neither bothered him one bit, and by the look on her face she knew this. She didn’t know, however, of the pathways in his brain that lead to places so well constructed and hidden that any effort to gain access was futile. The human brain can endure an awful lot if one has the capability to improve its structure and rewrite the rules to its constitution, no matter the environment. And he had been working on his for as long as she had been alive.

‘I’m awfully glad to see you commit to your well-being. Isn’t it cathartic to be able to face your fears? How are the nightmares?’

‘You never were my psychiatrist, Hannibal.’

'Yet you always felt obliged to tell me.' 

She smiled more these days and he was aware of the reason behind it: children are a convenient vessel to live one’s life through. No doubt her son had absorbed her horrors in the womb. 

‘I came because of Will’, she said.

He was struck by it more than he cared to admit. Months of nothing but waiting had left a hollow rift in his memory palace, an aberration so to say, on the moment they had departed. In his mind there had been no last encounter, no bitter goodbyes, nothing but an empty space waiting to be reframed. He wondered whether Will missed a fragment too.

’He fears me too then, does he?’

’I think the fear is more about himself than about you.’

’And quite right, too! If only you saw the magnificence of what he fears. I have, and can tell you, it’s nothing if not as monstrous as what I am.’

’He’s getting married’, she said, interrupting.

’Delightful’, he answered crudely and against his will. ’Am I invited to the wedding, or did you simply come here with poor attempts to torment me?’

’I wasn’t aware that you could be tormented. You have to be human for that.’ Fear lingered on the edge of her eyes. She was still very much scared of him. In spite of this, she stepped closer to the glass, and so did he. 

’No’, she said, ’this isn’t an invitation. Will preferred that I didn’t tell, but in the end he didn’t seem to care at all. If anything, he seems happy.’

’It seems more like he prefers to spare me the nuisance’, he said. He took a scalpel in his hand and sharpening a pencil, gave her a callous stare. ’I imagine it’s easier for him to keep me separate from this new life of his, and I’ll let him, for as long as he can stand it.’

’I'd advise you to forget him, but I know there’s no use in giving you a reprimand, telling you to let him live his life free of your torment.’ She glanced upon his drawings on the table, gave a disappointed sigh, seeing the various illustrations of the man. ’For his sake, I hope you’ll have to wait a long time’, she said.

Life was full of rooms like these, sterile and white and empty, without any depth or purpose. But it was the emptiness that made it all the more easier to return to his memories - into different kind of rooms, that were filled with striking colors and lively conversations, sensations so vibrant they could be abstracted from thin air and given rooms of their own. 

’I can wait’, he said to Alana, before leaving her. 

There was no prison in the world that he couldn’t escape, so he returned to Will, to the hollow rift - the missing fragment that was waiting to be filled.


	8. Chapter 8

Will’s thoughts were caught into a trap at the sea. Hannibal waited him to fish them out and put them into words, but mostly hoped for an oblivion that would turn the trap into a void. He wasn’t all that naive to think he had the ability to dissipate Will’s past, but having entertained the idea, he was curious enough to try.

It was barely morning when they landed on the south side of the island, jumping trouser legs rolled up and barefoot to the muddy shallows. The place was everything and nothing Will had promised it would be, he observed, as he helped him pull the boat closer to the shore. The wind was tame, air salty and humid, thick with insects too which the man kept waving away from his sweaty face as he tied the rope to a pole. The grey and lifeless little house, surely as dead as its previous occupant, emerged from the foggy landscape like a ghost, while overgrown needlerush swallowed its foundations and lush salt marshes unfolded behind. Regardless of the sky above urging them to leave and the bitterness of the drenched ground, Hannibal was captivated. The life that resided there reminded him of Will; the longer he stared at its beauty, the more indifferent it grew of him. 

They settled in the austere emptiness of the house, he slept few hours, Will the rest of the day, until afternoon came and he woke up, slowly considering the lack of privacy that he had seemed to to be aware of even in his sleep. It was the same strange obmutescence that had been in the boat, the acknowledgement of inhibition hovering between them, something that Hannibal had tried to provoke into action. He had eyed him - the glimmer of sweat in his hairline, the rolled sleeves and the graceful lines of his muscle put into use as he reefed the sail, or his fingers as he tied a knot, silently showing him as he did so - he had recognized the affection with perfect clarity, then restrained it willingly. 

A kettle of water was warming up on the tiny stove of the cabinet-sized kitchen, he dipped a piece of cloth in it and cleaned his own wound. Will waited there, leaning on the door frame, clearly wanting to say something but quickly withdrawing back into the feeble quietness he had gotten so used to. Then in the silence he took off his pullover, all rough and worn, waiting for his touch.

’I’ll prepare us something’, Hannibal said, approaching him. No answer came, just the discreet raise of a brow. ’So we can discuss after? I’d like to hear you speak by your own decision, rather than having me incite you to the matter.’ He removed the brace around his chest.

’Encouraging me to verbalise something I’m not ready to talk about sounds like incitement to me.’

He cleansed the dried blood from the stitching with care, then around the wound, took his time too as he saw that Will didn’t mind the closeness. 

’There’s a burden you should admit to, if not by conversation then by self-reflection. Look into yourself, don’t evade your emotions, let them come freely.’ He tied the brace back on.

’I don’t think a minute of mindfulness is going to make any difference’, he said and put on the pullover, then looked himself in a mirror near the doorway, removing the bandage from his cheek, grimacing as he did so. Hannibal handed over the warm, wet cloth. ’You do realize that this isn’t exactly a normal situation?’

‘Do you see yourself as normal?' He tested him, brimming with anticipation as he enticed out the reaction. 

‘You tell me’, Will said, glancing through the mirror.

‘You’re as normal as one might expect you to be in your circumstance. I see you as I see this place for instance, in all its alluring beauty and divergence, the elements actuate something natural and authentic’, he said and Will turned his head to look at him; he was more or less confused, ’from afar the view is calm, but should society defy and the laws of nature go undervalued - imagine the storm it would cause.’

‘It’s all tied to relativism, the laws of nature and society. Both breed normalities, but only the other judges the abnormal.’

‘Therefore, society’s judgement of me is not true. Neither is yours.’

’I never really thought about it like that. And as for relativism - it’s useless when it comes to you’, he said and let his gaze await. ‘You are inscrutable.’ 

Hannibal followed him out of the kitchen, watched him as he searched through his fishing equipment, carefully selecting the lure. There was a manner of artistry about his craftsmanship. His hands were versatile and worldly - they had become proficient in many ways.

’So, you side with me against your better judgement?’ 

Will grabbed a lonely windcoat from the rack. ’What choice do I have?’ 

’And the family - your wife and the boy, even against them?’ Will turned toward him, came very close, stared with his eyes of deep-water blue that intimated not to tempt him to anger. ’I thought as much. We ought to have an open discussion about it. Why don’t you catch us a nice seatrout? I’ll be happy to prepare it.’

The corner of his tense mouth twitched. ’Don’t mention it again’, he said temperately, then threw the front door open. ‘I’ll catch two.’

During the few hours that Will spent on the hook, Hannibal took his time and delved the premises, from the dusty, soiled interior to the vast open area of wildlife that enveloped the house. He found a self-made salt water distillation system from the back, and a crate of empty cans next to it, other garbage too that revealed the sad routine of scarce consumption. The place held nothing but the bare minimum one needed to survive, no running water, no electricity, everything had to be provided from the outside, which gave a miserable sense of entitlement to all the graven things clinging to existence there. 

As he was going back inside, he saw a shotgun hidden under the porch stairs, took it in his hand and noticed dried blood on the shoulder stock. He put it back where he had found it and not long after that Will came with a bucket of two full-grown speckled trouts waiting to be gutted. He did it on the porch, killed the fish competently, slid them open and pulled out their intestines. His fingertips were tinged with blood. 

Hannibal took his turn with the fish, eloquently handling, drying them and salting. He smelled the fresh ingredients, parsley and lime with thyme and basil, various spices of the mediterranean cuisine that would do well with the fish, then towards twilight he served it stuffed with herbs and citrus, roasted on coals of the outside fireplace. Will brought a bottle of red and two glasses from the boat, was a bit coy about it, poured himself a glass and devoured it in one go. They shared their first meal in silence, tacit in the mutual appreciation as they satiated their hunger. 

‘I hope you have a plan’, Will said as they sat on the front porch, beholding the open sea and the dark waves gathering ashore. He poured himself another glassful. ‘There’s a possibility we could be traced here, that’s if- well, it doesn’t matter really, my point is that we can’t stay here for too long.’

‘I have a plan’, Hannibal assured and had a long look at him. ‘I get the feeling that you regret coming here. This place seems more of a prison than a sanctuary for you. Tell me what happened, Will.’

‘He was slowly dying. The man who lived here. Couldn’t leave his bed at worst and no one from the village bothered to care, not that there’s many to care in the first place. It was a year ago when I came to see how he was doing, he’d been fine a year before that, so I didn’t expect to see him like that, covered in crap and whatnot. I just stared at him and his sprawled body swarming with ants, then he looked at me and I ended it. Not in the way you’d think, it was- it was an act of commiseration.’

‘I am glad’, Hannibal said fervently, almost cutting in. 

‘You’re not surprised.’

‘We’re currently sitting above the shotgun you used, are we not?’ Will did not flinch, only nodded his head in admission. ‘Did you think of me when you killed him?’

‘The strange thing is that I thought of it as mercy, but as the motion took over-’, he stared at his hand as if he still felt it there, ‘it was driven by pure egoism-’, he said and his thoughts drifted, then he gave him a hollow leer, ‘I felt like you’, he whispered.

‘Your devotion never ceases to amaze me. Really, I take excessive pride in you.’

‘Don’t get me wrong, my life was a lot easier when you weren’t constantly on the back of my mind.’ It forced a brief moment of silence - only the waves uttered distant words stirred by the east wind, seabirds answered to the call and they listened.

‘I did think about you at times, as I’m sure you thought about me’, Will said.

Even as they sat a small distance from each other, on foldable chairs, like it was one of their old therapy sessions, Hannibal could sense a different kind of closeness now. There was _desire_ as well, but his was ardent and distinct, whereas Will’s was expressionless and impassive - the kind of desire that had to be lured out hard and often and with failure. Will acknowledged the notion. He licked his lips, his thighs jerked as he spread them, his posture declined.

‘We can have an open discussion when it concerns us and our relationship, ask me anything and I’ll talk, but don’t reopen the past. I'll try not to dwell.’

‘I can live with that’, Hannibal said and poured him yet another glass. ’You make it sound quite dreadful - having an open discussion only if I instigated it. That’s certainly not the kind of relationship I want to have with you.’

’What kind of relationship would you like to have then?’

He only smiled, then said: ‘Isn’t it ironic how things have come about considering the past. Think of all the circumstances that have emerged from the effect of our past relationship. Surely not all of it has been destructive.’

‘You mean Alana and Margot?’

‘And us, what we have now - are we not comparable to them?’

‘Not really, no, I mean we’re both murderous fugitives on the run, so there’s that’, Will said. His eyes were alight, even if his words were dismissive, he leaned forward on his chair and stared into the bottom of his glass. ’And we lack physical intimacy. We’ve barely touched each other.’

Hannibal seized the moment and slowly reached his hand to touch his jaw, which he blocked with a rapid motion of his own, taking ahold of his wrist and letting out a disaffected grunt. ‘No’, Will said forcefully, but was fully aware of the seduction of it seeping through. ‘I’d be lying if I told you it never crossed my mind’, he whispered, ‘call it curiosity if you like, but don’t delude yourself into thinking it’s something more.’

‘Curiosity has its consequences’, he said. Will’s face was close, the expression as austere as the sea at night; he smelled of it. 

‘Probably, but it’s up to me to decide how those consequences come about. And that applies to everything. So, next time you think about going for a kiss, you’ll let me know.’

Hannibal smiled, quite transfixed by him, then the grip loosened, only Will didn’t let go. Without being fully aware of it, his touch had altered into something oddly tender, though it lasted only few seconds.

‘I’m taking a dip’, Will said out of the blue and began to undress as he was heading to the shore, leaving behind a trail of clothes for him to follow.

They bathed in the sea, the clouds withdrew at midnight, revealing the bright nocturnal sky and lighting the face of the water with silver. Will’s body was ablazed. The immediacy of freedom hit him harder than before as he saw the secretive smile forming on his face. They were both free, he thought.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize taking my time w this goddamn mess of a fic!! I'm posting the next chapter in few days

His dad had told him once that the past comes to haunt you only if you let it, but that was only when he was trying to evade questions about mom, thinking it would toughen Will up. Little did he know that when an old friend from a different life gave Will a visit, the past came after him like a storm that goes after a harvest, devastating the ground and everything flourishing in it. 

Jack welcomed himself in, smile widening as it came clear to him that Will had moved on. It was good to see him, but Will wanted him gone all the same. He took off his hat and gloves, Molly shook the hand, Walter did too, Will felt no compulsion to. Subtly, he forced the past in as he stepped through the door and small talked his way through the dinner, waiting for the right moment to drag Will back into the madness. If Jack had only known to inquire about the ugliness that had abided and nested inside him, he would’ve known that as soon as he left, Will found himself looking at Molly with internal disarray as she settled the laundry, or combed Walter’s hair. Everything that was real, all the beauty that existed in _this_ life, begun to feel uninteresting and mundane. 

‘I know you’ve said it a bunch of times, you’ve got this bane or whatever, but I know you’re a good man’, she said the night before he left, pressed his hand between hers. ‘You are a good man, Will', she repeated, 'and I know you’ll do what’s right, no matter what happens.’

He fell into her arms, but felt emptier than ever. ‘How do you know?’

‘Cause I’m the obnoxious know-it-all you couldn’t resist to marry, that’s how’, she said and got a light chuckle out of him. ‘No, I can’t say with a hundred percent certainty, but I’m pretty sure I’m right about you. If I wasn't, If I didn't know at all, we wouldn’t be here, right?’

‘I wish I had met you sooner’, he whispered and she hugged him back, smiling through her tears. ‘I love you’, Will said, but the words came out like a rattle, he almost choked on them, realizing he was thinking of someone else. _The bane of his life_.

. . .

 _Kill me_ , the eyes begged. Calmly, he fetched the shotgun from under the kitchen counter, took a glimpse in the blackened mirror and saw that the face wasn’t his own. It bothered him none. Back in the bedroom, the elderly man lay static and quiet as he recharged the weapon. His half-dead corpse reminded Will of his father, but only now in the state of slow death and misery. He paid no heed to it and caught a fleeting moment of fright in the eyes as he winced, and a sudden primitive jolt ran through him, only he didn’t pull the trigger. Instead, he turned the weapon around and knocked the man senseless. It was too late to reason now, he thought as he kept beating the skull uncontrollably, and hearing it crack, he saw that the battered and foul face was in fact his own. The one that he wore now - the one that he had seen in the mirror - had odd features, both attractive and sickening, and the sharp, hollow eyes were ones that could belong only to a killer. 

Strange arousal grew in him as he recognized to whom his face and the bloody hands belonged to. Motion became rapid all of a sudden, the beaten up carcass vanished in front of him, the room turned into something more familiar. In the dimness he found himself back in Wolftrap, lying naked on his old bed, turning around so that he was facing the beddings, submitting to something he could not understand. He opened his eyes and the room changed yet again. Everything else he could identify in the midst of the motion that blurred his edges, the variegated luxury and sensuality of the interior, but when it came to his own corporality, he could not ascertain the characteristics to belong only to himself, as if the surface of the skin was animate and the complexion lived its own life. He turned around as he felt another body pressing against him. The face was both his and someone else’s, features conjoined together in constant movement. The hands were fierce to grip him where it ached, the mouth devoured him, and he reciprocated with reckless eagerness until everything began to dematerialize. 

Will awoke with silent serenity, even if the dream had left him stagnant with uneasy breath. Cursing to himself, he had slowly retreated, carefully removing the blanket and Molly’s limbs tangled to his, as he saw that the arousal had followed him to reality. He stayed up all through the night, trying not to think about it, refusing to immerse himself in it, however disturbing or thrilling it might have been. Then, as the morning shed light on the bed, he woke Molly up with neck kisses, slid a hand between her thighs and made her grin and squirm under the touch. He couldn't tell, however, whose hand it was to touch her, whose mouth was on her skin.


	10. Chapter 10

Chiyoh was the epitome of cold beauty carved from the misfortune of life. She had told Will something so profoundly incomprehensible that the words in all her misery and calamity could’ve might as well been carved into him in turn so that he could wonder their indication for the rest of his life. _But violence is what you understand,_ haunted her words. What could one kiss connote next to a violent scenery, ecstatic throbbing inside his veins, or the momentary quiet of the mind when the body resists? 

Hannibal had spoken of her in the cramped little shed during the first night of their escape. ‘I considered leaving with her, three years back’, he said then, ‘she could’ve kept me on my toes, if nothing else.’

‘Why didn’t you?’ Will asked and slumped into the armchair. He was delirious with a dose of painkillers and some very old canned fruit from the boat. ‘Seemed to care about you. More than I did at least.’

‘More than you _did_? Has the extent of your care grown since?’

‘Has yours? Can’t help but recall the particularity of the moment you wanted to scoop my brains out.’

Hannibal was genuinely pleased. ‘I still do’, he said with a smile, ‘much like you still crave thrusting a knife into me.' He was fairly entertained, Will saw, although the bullet wound did have its effect. Tiredness abated his mood.

'You, of course, see it as some desperate form of dedication. That's why it's the interactive organ you want - the part of me that corresponds.'

'I’m dying to know, what part of me would _you_ want?’ 

‘I don't', Will slurred and felt his vision growing dimmer. Hannibal sneered at him in a rasp manner, lying legs crossed on the couch. 'Whether the proposition is hypothetical or categorical, the actual outcome of it goes far over my head’, Will said and thought about the eating of the heart, then, the eating of _his_. 

Hannibal turned his gaze toward him with preternatural certainty. ‘But you do understand violence. You understand me.' 

Will heard Chiyoh’s words as he stood up and staggered to the door. He took a moment before he turned to him again, saying: ‘To understand you is to be consumed by you.' He cracked the door open and let the wind blow through. He would be sleeping on the boat tonight. 'Either literally or figuratively.'

‘It’s a double-edged sword, something you indulge in even more impetuously than before', Hannibal said, half-exhausted and half-exasperated.

Will stirred from the truth of it. ‘It used to keep me up at nights’, he said shakily, 'that you'd have only eaten me because you cared enough to-', he felt sick, like he was about to throw up the stale peach and apricot right to the man's lap, ' _because you loved me._ ' 

Only silence followed. Will didn’t know whether Hannibal had fallen asleep or not, or just pretended to have been, but there was sophistication in his stillness all the same. 

'I still do', came the light answer before Will had a chance to leave. He didn't expect him to elaborate on it, so he left for the boat, vomited some before he climbed aboard, hyperventilated when he got below the deck, then thought about Chiyoh and the poetry of their mutual misfortune.

 _There are means of influence other than violence_ , she had told him, kissed him, but he could not see it back then. Only when he received a kiss from a mouth that carved more than words into him, had he understood hers with absolute clarity. The mouth had carved his flesh and bones anew.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just to clear up, when Will talks about the nature of a 'proposition', by that I mean the statement of Will thinking about eating Hannibal's heart. For example: 'Will would eat his heart', as in, 'some men would eat a human heart' is a categorical proposition. There's a definite assertion in it, whereas a hypothetical proposition relies on a specific condition for the statement to be true, for example: 'If Will absolutely had to choose between different organs, he would eat Hannibal's heart.' But even if the idea comes to Will's mind, even if he would eat Hannibal's heart, he can't understand why he would ever want to do so or how 'the outcome of it' would manifest in reality at all. 
> 
> (And the reason why Will doesn't mention the eating of his heart is because he knows that Hannibal, of course, assumed the answer already..gay ass!!)


	11. Chapter 11

Will was often astonished, even more often terrified, of his steadily growing capability to deceive. Some local teens had hanged about near the outer banks in Hatteras, talked about a man that had been found dead near the seashore. Will’s curiosity was naturally roused, but it wasn’t the only reason for his approach: he was hungry, and so was Hannibal _._

Detaching from his sense of self as went over to them, face covered in a hood, hands in his pockets, he had forgotten himself almost entirely.

‘Sorry to bother you boys, heard you talkin’ bout some dead guy washed up near my place’, he said with an accent he had not used in years, heard his dad’s voice there as the words flowed effortlessly from his mouth. Looking into the boys’ eyes became suddenly very easy. The bulkier one that had a smoke between fingers and phone in the hand nodded his head as a hello, while the other boy startled a bit. Will raised his hands to appease. ‘Sorry, didn’t mean to jump on you. Someone drowned, huh?’

‘Dunno, we just heard about it. Nothing ever really happens here, so-’, said the one with the phone, fully immersed in it. 

‘Yeah, I bet’, Will said and tried to make sense of their characters. ‘Can’t be worse than hangin’ round a boat all day long though, and that’s a lot coming from a skipper.’ The other boy’s eyes widened a bit. 

‘Cool, where you been sailing?’ He asked. He was taller, a bit dowdier than his friend, had awkwardness to his composure but was a lot more attentive.

‘Nah, mostly around the East coast. Can’t be going on long singlehanded voyages too much these days.’

‘You ever crossed the Atlantic?’ 

_‘Yes’_ , Will said and thought about the past then. Maybe he should have lied instead. ‘Yeah, there’s all kinda trouble always, either something goes wrong with the boat or something goes wrong with you, sometimes both.’ Will removed the hood a bit and revealed the bandage. ‘See? Shoulder’s all strained too. Flipped myself in a storm and damn near broke my arm. The sea can wreck a man.’ 

They ate it up as he kept blathering on like he was a regular guy from New Orleans, felt like a complete stranger to himself too.

‘Hey, if you wanna waste time, there's something I could use your help with’, Will said after a while. ‘See, I oughta be back on the water in no time at all, but I’ve ran out of food-’

‘Okay’, they both said, already willing to help. 

‘And my car’s good-for-nothing without gas, figured y'all could help me out, say, for a day or two. Make some groceries for me, pay included of course. Whatd’ya say?'

The other one, Mike, his name was, put his phone away and nodded enthusiastically as he took a drag of his cigarette, but Joshua, the lanky boy, had looked at him for a bit longer, still trying to figure him out, still wanting to ask more questions. _Skipper_ , they had called him, made fun of his unkemptness and the limp he hadn't tried to conceal, and he had laughed too in some disconnected way. Their clueless grinning mockery was undoubtedly a win for him. 

Within two days they had managed to hoard the village market near empty for him, and Will, sure in the impression that they had been trustworthy enough, paid them sufficiently and bid them goodbye. Hannibal had come out of the shed as they left, watched gravely as the two figures moved further away along the sand road. His brow twitched with something he clearly wanted to let out.

'Would be a shame if something happened to them', he amused.

‘You don’t trust my judgement of character?’ Will asked him. 

‘This is not about trust, Will. Your judgement can be as infallible as God’s is and it still doesn’t lessen the torrent of consequences that follow. Causality is fickle. Never rule out the possibility of exposure - if you don't want to get caught, that is.’

‘What, so you'd rather starve? You don't care about getting caught, you're just fumed because I didn't apply myself to you.'

‘I care about it as much as you do’, he said and came close, stared down at him. He wasn't concerned in the slightest, Will could tell, yet still, discontentment flickered in his eyes; his tone and approach were abrasive. ‘Does it excite you, now, to think of what would happen? I wonder how you would frame the narrative and weasel your way out of this one.’

Will huffed. ‘You’re talking about a narrative that I initiated.’

The boys were just two far-away shapes in the evening gleam as Hannibal pulled out a folding knife from his pocket. ‘You must be aware then, that people will talk about us.’

‘I don't care whether they do or not.' 

Hannibal considered the sentiment. ‘You feed on recklessness and use it as an excuse to defy me’, he said and kept looking at him, light hitting the hard angles of his face, blood red sunset shimmering in his eyes as he came closer yet. ’How could you go hungry now? How could I after witnessing this?' he whispered sternly and as strange as it was, Will let him take the hood down and briefly hold his face. 'What an overpowering and all-encompassing wonder your becoming is.'

He was on the verge of erupting, excreting heat under the cool grip of his hand that slowly drew his palm toward him. ’You are your own man, Will', Hannibal said in cold recognition. 'You should act accordingly.'

He pressed the knife to his hand.


	12. Chapter 12

The boys were left unharmed but Will kept his folding knife regardless. It had been a lousy, uninspiring saturday noon, their second one the desolate island, sky a grey velvet threatening above the bleak water, rising tide gradually swallowing the alluvial soil near Will’s little spot at the water’s edge where he had sat all morning, rotating the knife between his fingers, deep in thoughts he was still reluctant to share. That morning at the very spot he had seen a great blue heron and a common buzzard confronting over the remains of a prey, the raptor viciously attacking the taller, wiggly sort of bird, eventually yielding, though not without a fight.

They had a fight of their own that day. Hannibal had imparted Will of his years of self-improvement on martial arts, which he had naturally considered a self-important boast, thus a flighty session of sparring had occurred. Will had a certain serenity about him as he observed and duplicated the techniques he displayed, and though his figure was well-trained and firm in flesh, it was not one of a stout, close range fighter. However, he was smart and aware, above all, quick to learn. With motion similar to a bird of prey, came Will's nimble attacks, only not nimble enough for the sharp-eyed sleight with which he anticipated every strike, blocked and bent and twisted, overpowered him until at last he managed to yank free and dodged Hannibal’s instant dash. ‘Good’, he said but then made him useless with a jerk of a forearm, gracefully manipulating the joints, unsettled his balance and slammed him to the ground. Will writhed and moaned there awhile, got up breathlessly, calculated carefully and tried again, and again, soon the fight resembling more a wrestle than a hand to hand combat. Will growled and cursed, face all red and puffy from fighting him down. Without difficulty Hannibal twisted Will’s left arm into a lock, rolled on top of him in the soil as Will mumbled some dirty words at him.

‘Invigorating, isn't it?’ He said and anticipated Will’s anger soon bursting, smirked at his subtle ‘invigorating, my ass’, wreaked pain on him, distorting the joint unscrupulously.

‘You’d kill me if you knew-’, Will said and another low-pitched moan escaped him. 

‘Having second thoughts again?’ Will didn’t answer but but the frown was followed by a familiar mien of self-pity and degradation. ‘If that’s the case your presumption is not far from the truth. I have my limits too.’ Will was reaching his, sweating under him. An inch more to the curve and the joint would dislocate. He let go of the other hand and Will brought it to his back, ripped at his shirt. Hannibal bid him to stay still, stared at his filthy face. ‘Now's the time for truth, whether it results in anger or love.’ Will laughed in agony.

‘Compassion too?’ At that point Will was most likely aware of the psychology behind his torment. He slid his fingers under the hem of his shirt, still he wouldn’t release him. 

‘Is it your conscience that’s prickling you again, or you wife?’ Will did not stir. Hannibal slowly loosened his grip, but Will remained caged under him, thoughtless. ‘Now, look at me- no Will, _look_ at me, and tell me truthfully, what did she give you in the end? Did she give herself to you the way I have?’ Will’s hand lay limply at his back. He shifted under him, expressionless but not unaffected, wanted to flee but didn’t. Vile thoughts engulfed him, hypocritical and perverse, impulsively insensitive. He gave a ridiculing sneer. ‘Perhaps this about your soft spot for young boys.’ 

The line between dominance and submission blurred. Will’s sudden cold confidence blinded him, the paradox of gaining control by relinquishing it was another pawn in the game, misleading attack he fell for. He got lost in him, beneath the Atlantic whiff, the smell of him: petrol and alcohol, dirt and sweat but no sweet sting of adrenaline. The steady flowing of blood warned him as a red light flashing at a dead end cliff warns self-destructive drivers, but to no avail. He disregarded the obvious, a swift snapping sensation, a sharp edge of familiar steel at his throat. Will seized him, overthrew him to the wet ground, grabbed at his collar and forced his knife firmly against the pulse. The roiling of the Atlantic was nothing if not a divine manifestation of Will’s fury: tears shimmering, hand trembling and hesitating from the impeding, elusive emotion.

‘I’ve laid my soul bare for you’, Hannibal said, clenching his jaw, leaning into the cutting edge. ‘Can't you do the same for me?’

Will had then jerked the knife away in anger and hurled it to the ground, in some state of disbelief grabbed at his face and departed to the beckoning ocean. 

They did not talk nor look at each other for quite some time, Will spending most of his time on the boat, refusing to eat anything that wasn’t canned or otherwise execrable, while Hannibal willfully restrained himself from eating anything at all. He had caught himself in the mirror, gaunt faced and pale, but brutally determinate to overcome the gut-wrenching spiritual isolation. Week later there came an unforgiving storm that had torn off the pole that held the boat ashore, loosed it to the rising waves - the kind of storm that thrilled his bones to the core and invigorated his spirit to shudders - shaking the roof and reeling the creaky foundations of the house, rain hitting the walls from every direction; a deafening chorus of hard slashing of water as they came from securing the boat, soaking wet and short of breath, slamming the door shut and leaning against it. Will gave a laugh then, rough and short, somewhat deranged, as if there was cause enough to celebrate, and there had been, for what used to be a routine of avoiding glances and a competition of wit and snarls, was convulsed by the cleansing of the storm, by the utmost trembling of the foundations. 

Will swivelled around, wet curls on his forehead, covert gaze and the biding grin that he couldn’t quite read, his chest heaving until it didn’t, until his expression altered into something inexplicable, then swiftly wiping the rain off that scruffy face of his, he came to him, settled his head on his shoulder. A call for reconciliation or intimacy or warmth. At first it was a mere attempt of an embrace, nothing but a weary lean, but then he felt his hands on him, on his sides, drawing them from behind his shoulders to the nape of his neck, made his descent to his lower back, clutching hard, and suddenly he had seized his body whole. Touching him felt corrosive, like violence it spread through his veins, forced him to fall deeper into the embrace. He succumbed to his sensual rawness, both untamed and tender, like the storm outside capturing the ocean. Their unwavering eyes met, he detected no signs of deceit. An apology. Then, rather than leaving for the boat that night, Will sat down at the candle lit hearth with him, stove rustling out heat as Hannibal returned to his notations. He was transcribing Valse scherzo from memory, scribbling on the last yellowing pages of a century-old book about migratory birds of South-America as Will gulped down something clear and self-made, had a slight odor of maple sap to it, that too long aged.

‘I imagine walking into a thorn bush has the same effect’, Will said contemplatively after a silent exchanging of glances, said it as if the words needed no context or clarification. Hannibal gazed at him gently. ‘You’ve lost weight.’ 

‘That tends to happen when one fasts thoroughly for days.’ 

Will cleared his throat, eyes fleetingly flickering away as he coughed again and stuttered: ‘It was good though. Felt good.’

‘It did.’

‘I always thought I was lacking in that sort of thing. Misspent my entire youth opting out of everything, never bothered myself with the fais-do-do, you know, having to pick up a girl, drive her home, pretend there’s nothing wrong with me. I find the whole paradigm irrelevant and somewhat repugnant, but still it evokes self-loathing in me. No cavorting around and copulating in the parking lot for me.’ He took another swig, set the bottle between his knees, twiddled the lip of it. ‘I reckon that’s an afterthought on a question you once asked me. About my mother.’

‘Maternal love does encourage men to seek closeness more innately’, Hannibal agreed and closed the book, appreciating the self-imposed discussion and Will’s rare openness, couldn’t help but picture him as a young man, poor and inconspicuous, not as well-composed as now but ever so quick-witted and unpredictable.

‘Depends on how you define maternal love’, said Will.

Hannibal cut to the chase: ‘So you reached the high hanging fruit?’ 

‘Nonhanging’, Will corrected. ‘It was overripe all along, maggot-infested and rotting in the dirt.’

‘Like a dark cloth, her absence envelops your childhood, bedevils your relationship to what ought to be dead and buried. Tearing holes to it would unravel the past but damage the very core of your being.’ Will nodded drearily, soon his eyes welled up. ‘You blame yourself for not having her in your life.’

‘I blame myself for empathizing.’ The tone was tired and bitter, sentiment long brewed, but whether he was talking of his mother, Hannibal was not sure. 

‘We often love the ones who are not worthy of it. Do you feel unworthy, Will?’

Will set the down the bottle and leaned back, head swaying, eyes closing. ‘I feel tired’, he said gruffly, kicking off his boots and unfastening the belt of his trousers drunkenly, then drowsing on the couch where Hannibal had been sleeping. Suffusing, corroding warmth overcame him again, he felt rather useless for a brief moment, then covered him with the fallen blanket he hadn’t noticed, was on his way to the far back bedroom when Will mumbled a vague protest. ‘Hannibal’, he said, ‘I wouldn’t have done it.’

The warmth arose from his bowels, up to his heart, then into his mouth. ‘I know.’

He shifted to his back, exhaled deeply. ‘You still going to starve yourself to death?’ 

‘You've caused me enough visceral damage', said Hannibal.

‘With regard to anger and love?’ 

'Compassion', he said, lingered on the dark corridor, heard the Atlantic even as the storm was dying down. He left Will alone, statically waited as he laid on the bed, far off the waves still called, or then it was Will. He held his breath as one does underwater, still waiting and burning, cursing the storm and the matter that overpowered him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next few chapter will be mostly sketches !


	13. Chapter 13

'She's to hell and gone, boy, ain't nothin else you need a know', he said and the hand felt rough on his neck. Will only ever saw her in his dreams, wandering alone the plain fields of grotesque imagery.

She had left dad after he got diagnosed with Alzheimer’s, took off with a sharecropper from the rural south, the Cajun heartland of Louisiana where her roots were strong and compelling. It was way back in '79, however, after the hurricane, that she’d been reported missing. For a long time after that, Will suffered from frequent seizures, headaches that doctors believed to be of psychosomatic nature. At nights he’d concentrate to the blaring voices of French speaking youth and the ceaseless creaking of floorboards, breathed in the suffocating air, always failed to resist the images flooding in.

He settled for machinelike drudgery to distract himself, graduated from high school in '92 and was already running dad's small-scale boat motor business when hurricane Andrew came ravaging half the coast. Dad's sickness got worse by the day, what with their evacuation from the devastated periphery of New Orleans to a rental near Baton Rouge, where he got a job at a local foundry, worked on a fishing boat every other day to pay for it. He lived in a constant state of expectancy, through the routine of religiously feeding and bathing him, listened to the familiar creaks at night and slept like a watchdog. One morning he woke up to the slams of car doors, drew the curtains open and sprung from the bed: the state police had reopened mom's case. He repeated dad's demented words, told them he couldn't remember when dad clutched his arm abruptly, delusional and tottering. 'You'd never kill your old man', he said, whereupon the obscene vision took him. He remembered mom wrapped up in tarp, bruises on her neck, dark curls covering a petrified face, dead eyes staring at her killer.

Dad died that spring. In the moist heat and the creaking of floorboards. Will's hands had come close, trembling and loving around the tenseness of his throat. There was uncertainty in dad's eyes too, then, about her death. He must've wondered while looking deep into his son's eyes, whether it was him who had killed her after all.


	14. Chapter 14

Hearing of Will Graham in the case of United States v. Lecter

**CROSS-EXAMINATION**

BY ATTORNEY METCALF:

Q Mr. Graham, you said your relationship with the defendant, Hannibal Lecter, was never formalized; correct?

A Not on paper, no.

Q Did you not also say there was no mutual recognition of friendship at the time you witnessed him committing the murder of Abigail Hobbs whom you and the defendant shared custody over?

A There was a pretense of one whether it was mutual or not, but generally speaking, what we had at the time wouldn’t be considered a friendship by anyone sane, other than him, of course.

Q And yet there is evidence of you conducting yourself otherwise by multiple people, including the head of the investigation at the time, Jack Crawford, and one of the defense witnesses, Dr. Alana Bloom who stated that, uh -- after the incident --Will Graham-- seemed reluctant to speak to anyone, let alone to --Jack Crawford-- of what had gone on between him and Lecter during the final weeks of the investigation, and regardless, had alluded to having feelings of more sentimental nature toward him. Will regarded him as a friend and wanted him to live --; Is that not a contradiction of your testimony today?

A Not necessarily.

Q So, you did consider him a friend prior to and after the death of Abigail Hobbs? 

A I have no problem admitting our relationship was somewhat unconventional, and that we were both aware of our actions. But no, I didn’t think of us as friends by the definition of it. We have attempted to physically harm each other more than once, if that counts as a counterargument.

Q It’s also fair to mention that in the statement recited by Dr. Bloom, Will Graham had expressed a desire to run away with Hannibal Lecter and eventually followed him -- illegally, if one might add -- to Palermo and Florence. Is that true?

A -- but I don’t think I’m lawfully obliged to elaborate on that.

Q Pardon?

A (No verbal response.)

Q Mr. Graham, did you or did you not want to leave the country with my client when you had the opportunity to do so?

A -- yes.

Q Is it fair to assume that it was of other reasons than attempting to harm him physically?

A Well -- yes.

Q Such as --

A -- It was a personal matter between us.

Q To be sure, you’re not friends, but you wanted to, uh -- see him and, one could argue, be with him?

A I’m not sure I get where you’re going with this.

Q Was there a romantic inclination to your inducement regarding the apprehension of the defendant?

A Excuse me?

Q My client says you didn’t contact the authorities to have him arrested. In fact, no phone calls were made from your house to anyone that night. Not to the police, nor to Jack Crawford. Here is the document that confirms the lack of activity in your cell phone at the time. Can you have a look at it? 

A Sure.

Q Let’s mark this, shall we--

(Exhibit 223 marked for identification) 

Q --did you not want Hannibal Lecter to be imprisoned?

A I did -- but I don’t understand -- who were you referring to with the romantic incli--

Q I was referring to the defendant, Hannibal Lecter.

THE COURT: I think, Mr. Metcalf, the cross-examination is starting to resemble a bit too much of a heckle. Continue with more lenient approach, please.

ATTORNEY METCALF: Yes, Your Honor, I’m nearly finished.

Q Let me rephrase; Mr. Graham, do you harbour any romantic feelings toward the defendant?

A --

(Court reporter couldn't hear)

THE WITNESS: I said to the defendant, Hannibal Lecter -- is this how you want to end it? -- make sure you jot that down.

THE COURT: Mr. Graham, I’m urging you to control yourself or the courtroom officers will have to restrain you --

ATTORNEY METCALF: Why don't we take that recess now?

(Witness leaves the stand without permission)

THE WITNESS : (To the defendant) No-- does the defendant got the sack to ask me that question himself? -- yeah, you have my attention now -- (Inaudible)

(Judge departs and assigns order to courtroom officers)

(Witness is removed by force from the courtroom due to aggressive behaviour toward defendant)

(Recess taken at 3:33 p.m.)


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for mentions of animal abuse!

The storm had left the island in a thick mass of tropical air, a yellowish hue pouring in through the drizzle and vapour on the window. Swallowing a mouthful of heat, Hannibal found he had overslept—which was nothing short of unthinkable— and quickly realized he had been left alone. He imagined Will had gone back for the boat to sleep but outside his sphere of vision held only a distant line of clouds above the limitless glisten of water, the boat nowhere near where they had moored it ashore. It couldn’t have been so. It was too early in April to set off. An unusual feeling occurred and he naturally questioned it: when he had gone through life never having to doubt bestowing his trust to anyone, why had he bothered to do so now? 

The morningly haze quietly withdrew and unveiled a glimpse of blue sky above where he stood, the sun indicating little over ten when he was half a mile from the shore and had come across the first bypasser. Atop a low ridge of purple needlegrass was a slimline dog staring at him, still and vigilant. With a sudden slackening of tension it continued to approach with little interest until he hunkered and extended his hand. Even though it looked like one of those pitiful and crippled creatures he had seen in his youth, dead or abandoned in the hinterland of Andalucía, it was friendly enough to belong to a family. He brushed his fingers through the hard, black coat of silver highlight, stared into the restful eyes and closed his hand around the slender throat, whispering _de dónde vienes?_ as if the sighthound had emerged into existence from nothing. It must have taken a liking to the strong scent of Will on him as it followed him to the vacant village, around the ferry dock and the life saving station, back to the cottage where he served it water, sat on the porch next to it, both of them getting eaten alive by insects while waiting.

Suddenly it turned its attention towards a boy, not older than fifteen and awfully familiar looking, calling its name. He breathed in deep, hand spasming to reach for the folding knife he remembered Will had kept after all. The huffing dog cantered gracefully to the boy as soon as he was close enough to see whom it had made an acquaintance with, bug-eyed as he stared and startled. Most people would've likely taken to the hills by now, but this one knew better than to try his luck. 

‘Hello’, Hannibal said and the boy nodded and greeted back in a nervous rush. ‘A Galgo Español?’ he asked and watched him leash his dog.

Again came a nod, more tense than the one before. ‘She’s usually cautious of strangers’, he managed to stutter, trying very hard to emphasize a state of unawareness. He knew exactly who he was talking to, yet they kept playing their respective roles, one out of sheer fright and the other for the sake of it. The galgo began whimpering. 

’D’you live here—?’ he asked out of decorum and kept shushing the dog, not realizing its distress had already made the whirl of their synchronized parasympathetic nerves apparent.

’My wife and I inherited the property’, Hannibal blew the flies from his mouth, gave him a polite smile, ’but you can probably tell the conditions aren’t too ideal. I wouldn’t say no to a lavatory. Or a solid meal.’ 

A moment of petrified silence and swelter, after which the boy blinked and backed away compulsively. ’Thanks—', he abruptly said, though not quite sure of what he was thanking him for, ’I better go’, came his quelled voice. 

’You haven’t seen _my_ dog by any chance, have you?’ 

Will had once been described by the press as such, and while he thought it was terribly funny, he became aware the boy had understood the implication even as all he did was shake his head, uneasy from the apparent trembling, dead still as Hannibal stood up.

’You seem like a smart young man—’, Hannibal said to reassure him, as kindly as he could to prevent a fight or flight situation, ’you’ve met a man younger than me, not more than two weeks ago. Do you know who I’m talking about?’ He nodded a yes. ‘If you do as I tell you, there’s no need for either of us to get bent out of shape. You can release the dog now. Best leave animals out of human affairs. Come toward me as slowly as you like. Come here. Take your time.’

Knowing he would do as told, Hannibal drew the shotgun and box of shells from under the porch stairs, opened the break-action and slid shells in the barrel chamber. ’Perfect’, he said when they were close to ten feet from each other, the shaking getting more uncontrollable by the minute. ’I hate to use a firearm, but unfortunately it’s the only guarantee against a party of two grown men or more, three perhaps? Are there any children?’

He shook his head in a firm no.

’Good.’ 

’My dad’s a cop’, he blurted, as if that would make a difference.

Hannibal sneered to himself. ’Yes, they often are. Is he a good one—you think? If not, this could well make his payslip look all the better’, he jested, but his efforts to lift up the mood weren’t much appreciated. ‘Who is with him?’

’My uncle and cousin, but they’re not— they’re not cops.’

Hannibal pointed his gaze at the dog. ’Handsome thing’, he said. ‘Kept me company for quite some time. I never much cared for dogs, but I can see the appeal in having a lifetime of friendship without compromise—although I must tell you it’s very unusual for them to behave that way around me.’ He recollected something from his youth: an altogether unrelated memory that he pushed away from his thoughts and looked at the boy. 

’As far as intuition and emotional contagion goes, galgos have a special sensitivity about them. Their trust and love is not easily earned—a trait that can make them useful to a man and equally as vulnerable. I once met a man who owned a few, an old hand galguero who considered the animals dispensable—’not worth a bullet’, he would say—told me he would rather trade the bullet for money. Do you want to know what I did to him after that?’ Hannibal asked, but the boy only stood there trembling like it was him who had maltreated the animals. Hannibal gave him a look that was both untroubled and dour, then came off the anecdote with a sudden carefree intake of breath. ’Now, would you care to tell me your name?’ 

Joshua, he answered, but Josh was what everyone called him and he didn’t particularly like that, or his birth name for that matter, he told him it was only a fishing trip and the dog had seen a wild animal and chased after it, and that he’d looked for it for almost an hour; clearly, the talking had an appeasatory effect on him so they kept at it as they walked along the shoreline.

’How do you know— that he’s with my dad?’ 

’Do you have a theory of your own?’

’I don’t think he— I’m tryna say I don’t think he could kill— like you. Would he?’

Hannibal looked at him as though he had said something remarkable. ’How do you reckon I do it? You’re still alive. Your father’s chances of survival are looking brighter every second. If his code of conduct prevents him from acting in unwanted ways, we could all make it out alive.’

’He’s never killed anybody.’

He might if he was a small-town official with too much time on his hands, time spent shooting beer cans and vermins instead of defusing actual threats. That could turn even dad of the year into trigger-happy man-slayer if things were to escalate. He wouldn’t mind it coming to that, though. If he was being honest he rather anticipated it—he didn’t show it, of course, so much as he tried convincing the boy—Joshua—that everything was going to be alright. 

As it happened he discerned the mast of Will’s sailboat ahead with its sails still furled down, just behind a ramshackle fishing hut, next to a motorboat from which jutted out various fishing rods with entangled lashes. Hannibal had to grab Joshua’s arm to bend him down as they got closer, but therein his attention was drawn to a prominent smear of blood on the sand, the pattern it created resembling that of a severe beating, followed by a trail of droplets gradually getting smaller and leading to the hut. To his surprise his heart rate began accelerating as he heard heated arguing from inside, knuckles turning white from clasping the stock of the shotgun. He gave a light tug at the boy to get him in front, the burning neck in the grip of his hand and the shotgun in the other. 

‘Tell me something’, he said. ’Do you trust your father?’ The skin pulsated under his fingers—an agitated nod and he let go, took a step back and let the pipe rest against the back of his skull. ‘And you love him?’ He asked, but this time the only answer was his distraught sobbing.

In the end, Hannibal supposed love had nothing to do with trust. Both experiential and intuitive, either one or nonexistent, to him trust was a state of knowing; whereas love was entirely beyond him. If he tried hard enough to seize it, the burning of his nervous system, he might just be able to understand it, but from a reverse perspective, trust and love could never be implicit enough in defining what Will was to him or what he was to Will. He could kill a man now and it would not turn Will away, he could tell him of the foul sight of slaughtered dogs and of all the lives he had taken thereafter, the body of a lifeless child he had mutilated and eaten.

Or then, he could confess, take Will by his shoulders, stare into his eyes and say: I would rather die than live without you—plead and cry to his face _I love you—_ and end up with his throat cut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Save Galgos! Adopt rescue dogs!


End file.
